“Ah,” he says, staring down at a silver ring on his left hand that he twists idly back and forth. “That’s understandable. Legend tells us that the knight Aglovale, son of King Pellinore and brother to four other knights of the Table including our own Lamorak, once traveled to what were then known as Moorish lands. There he fell in love with a Moorish princess and got her with child. By all accounts, their son, Moriaen, grew up to be a formidable fighter—tall, strong, skilled in battle. Moriaen wore a shield and armor and, as grandson to Pellinore and nephew to so many valorous knights, it must have seemed a sure thing that he, too, would join the Table.”

The hot blanket of sudden humiliation suffocates me, makes it impossible to breathe.

Davis looks at me, false concern settling across his brow. “But Moriaen did not join the Table. Do you know why, Briana?”

I swallow around the thick, burning rage in my throat. “No.”

“Because he was not worthy.” He clasps his hands in his lap, eyes unreadable. “Just as you are not worthy. Not for Camlann, and not for my son.”

My voice rings oddly, like someone else is speaking from a room far away. “Nick has already decided that I am.”

“Nick doesn’t see the grand vision of his ascension. What the return of the king means, and what it can restore. The opportunity of Camlann that I never had.”

I glare at him, fresh rage lacing my voice. “You think war is an opportunity?”

He looks surprised, as if I’ve mistaken red for blue. “All wars are opportunities. And I won’t let another one pass me by.”

“Pass you…” I trail off. My heart pounds as details return. “You wanted Camlann when you were a Scion. You wanted Arthur to Call you.”